and promise not to promise anymore
by headlesshessian
Summary: Matthew can't stand the chains on all the doors anymore. Alfred might be able to help, a little.


Happy Memorial Day, my American readers! Sorry about all the breaks, but takes all of mine out, so...y'all must deal with the lines. And there is very little name-switching, so I hope it's satisfactory. Assume all doors are double doors, or, French doors.

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize-not the characters and not the (wonderful) song.

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><p>"<em>The sky looks pissed,<br>The wind talks back,  
>My bones are shifting in my skin,<br>And you, my love, are gone._

_So glide away on soapy heels,  
>And promise not to promise anymore,<br>And if you come around again,  
>then I will take, then I will take,<br>the chain from off the door."_

-"The Chain," Ingrid Michaelson

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><p><strong>1763<strong>

Mathieu didn't mind the rain. He also didn't mind the snow. What he did mind, however, was the slushy mix that was currently falling outside the window. The physically-twelve colony shivered and pulled his knees up to his chest. Not only was he chilled, he had the curious feeling of movement in his bones. It was not a pleasant feeling. Kumajirou, at his side, cuddled closer as well.

"The sky looks so angry," Mathieu murmured to the bear, "I hope Francis gets here soon."

The white bear hummed in agreement. Half an hour passed, in which the Canadian mentally arranged and rearranged the furniture in the library from his position at a window seat. Before he could get to the physical aspect, there was a clatter barely heard over the wind from outside, and two soggy figures jumped off horses. A few seconds later, the front door slammed open with an almighty boom.

Mathieu leapt up from his seat and sprinted towards the receiving room, skidding over the hardwood floor. Two men stood there, Francis and someone vaguely familiar to him, both equally soaked.

The strange, shorter man said something as he took his hat off, in a language that sounded like the clanging of metal keys to Mathieu. Francis answered back in the same tongue, but even without understanding the words Mathieu could hear the defensiveness in his guardian's tone.

"Francis…?" Mathieu hesitantly asked, tucking the one curl that wouldn't stay put behind his ear. Both men whirled around to face the Canadian; the stranger with a wicked grin and an odd gleam in his acid-green eyes; Francis with panic and sorrow.

The stranger barked a short phrase at the Frenchman, who flinched. Mathieu's worry increased.

"Francis, what's going on?"

Slowly, as though the words caused him physical pain, Francis spoke. "I have lost, _mon cherí. _I have lost the war and lost you."

Stunned, a feeling as cold and wet as the weather outside overtaking him, Mathieu stepped back.

"And I have won on both counts," the stranger said happily in accented French.

"_Angleterre,_" came the sharp reprimand.

"You're giving me away," Mathieu said flatly.

Francis did not make any attempt to deny it. "I am sorrier than you will ever know, _mon cherí_."

Mathieu looked away.

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><p>The conditions England laid down for Canada were simple, and the colony did not find them difficult to obey. He discovered that along with his new, English name-Matthew Williams-he had a fellow English colony for a "brother."<p>

The way England called them "brothers" was rather ridiculous though, Matthew thought, because they were quite different. America, or Alfred, was technically older than Matthew, and was tanner and blonder and louder and had bluer eyes. Matthew was pale with white-blonde hair, and dark eyes that never seemed to decide whether they were blue or purple instead. The only thing Matthew believed he was "more of" than Alfred was invisible.

However, no matter how often he was forgotten, Arthur considered Matthew well behaved enough to oblige him in most requests.

"Alfred asked for his own horse. Do I dare ask why you want a padlock and chain?" the personification of Great Britain asked distractedly, barely glancing up from his papers. Outside, spring had finally reached North America.

"Nothing bad, I promise!" Matthew squeaked, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

This time, Arthur did look up. "Well, do take Alfred with you in case you need help. I need him out of my hair today anyway," he finished darkly. As though realizing Matthew was still standing there with a confused look on his face, Arthur shooed him out.

"So what _are_ we doing here, exactly?" Alfred asked contemplatively, staring up at the second floor of the house. The midday sun beat heavily down on the North Americans.

Matthew held up the lock and chain. "Just making sure a specific room stays shut, that's all."

As they reached the door-the one at the end of the hallway, one of four-Matthew motioned for Alfred to go in. "I don't want to go in there. Nothing bad; no ghosts-" Alfred looked relieved,"-just make sure it's fine excepting dust, would you?"

Alfred nodded solemnly and opened the door. When he reemerged a few minutes later and motioned that all was well, Matthew looped the chains through the French doors and began to fasten the lock.

"That was-"

"France's room," Matthew finished.

Alfred nodded and watched Matthew hook the lock through the chain links. "I'm surprised this is _all_ you're doing," he commented.

That same slushy feeling of cold betrayal settled over Matthew's body. "What…what do you mean, Alfred?"

Alfred shrugged. "Well, I mean, I thought you'd be more upset that France gave you up but-" he seemed to read something in the Canadian's face and trailed off as Matthew's eyes widened.

"But _what_, Alfred?" he asked in a carefully controlled voice.

"But kept, uh, Guadaloupe," Alfred finished with a grimace.

Matthew turned away from Alfred's earnest, pleading blue eyes and looked down at the lock.

_I am sorrier than you will ever know, mon cherí_, echoed again through the colony's mind.

"Sorry?" the Canadian hissed to himself, one hand reaching up to gently touch the lock. With an almost savage energy, he shoved the lock shut with so much force it scratched the paint on the doors.

"Mattie-" Alfred began, and Matthew flinched at the unexpected nickname.

"Go choose a room for yourself, Alfred." Cautiously, the American walked away, and Matthew rose to stare down at the lock and the key he held in his other hand.

"Matthew?" Alfred called. He stood at the door directly across from the Canadian's own room. Purposefully, Matthew marched into the sparsely furnished room, shoved aside the bottom corner of the bed, and yanked up the floorboard underneath. With only slightly shaking fingers, he dropped the key into the space revealed.

Leaning back, Matthew slumped down and watched as the bed was moved back into place, over the floorboard.

"C'mon, Mattie," Alfred said, stepping around the bed and picking up the smaller colony under his arms.

"He can find the key _himself_," Matthew whispered viciously.

Alfred smiled sadly before draping an apologetic arm over his fellow colony's shoulders. Matthew gave a shuddering sigh and, still feeling cold, snuggled closer into the warmth of Alfred's side.

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><p><strong>1812<strong>

The chain used to close Alfred's doors once the Revolution begun was roughly as sturdy as a ladder made of paper, and for a while, that was how Matthew liked it.

Arthur, when he remembered that there was still a part of North America he controlled, didn't bother to look at it after the first time; instead staying in the room next to Matthew's and furthest down the corridor from Alfred's old one-ironically, right across from France's.

When Arthur left, however, Matthew would occasionally creep into Alfred's room and reflect on the "brother" he barely got a chance to know.

But that was all before 1812.

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><p>The young Canadian stared up into the sky, feeling progressively more ill each second. It seemed to him that he was trapped in a circle of flames, which, if he was feeling well enough to be honest with himself, really wasn't an accurate assessment. A flaming board crashed down scant yards from him and Matthew clumsily jumped away from it. For once, he was grateful for his skills in fading into the background, as a contingent of soldiers wearing American uniforms rushed past him, shouting at and over each other. Matthew couldn't bring himself to shoot. His capital, the physical representation of his heart, was crashing down around him and <em>it hurt.<em>

And it was all Alfred's fault.

For a while after that, Matthew would bitterly say he wished he could have seen Alfred that night, but the truth was that he saw neither hair nor hide of his "brother" that night. Later, both the American and the Canadian would agree that it was a Very Good Thing. Matthew stumbled around York, doing his best to help his people who were gathered there, but after a general saw the condition he was in, he was ordered home. There were no bright, shining moments of heroism that he could tell. There was only smoke, fire, and the sudden realization that England was right and always had been- War _was _hell.

And after hours upon hours of agony, Matthew was sure it was a realization he would always remember.

All he could bring himself to do after the orders to go home was find a chain and lock. It wasn't that hard, though Matthew was sure he would regret the less-than-legal means later. What it was, though, was painful, in the sense that every time he moved he was in pain. The Canadian lurched through the doors upon arriving home, bloodied iron chain and lock in hand, and stumbled up the stairs. His uniform shifted as he moved, alternately becoming stuck and painfully unstuck to the burns across his heart. The new chain and lock were clumsily dropped on the floor next to the door as the wounded colony yanked at the fragile chain that kept America's door closed.

It broke on the second tug. With frenzied, shaking hands, Matthew wrapped the new chain around the door handles. Picking up the solid lock, Matthew briefly reflected that it would be easier to break the doors down than get this lock and chain off of this door. He hooked the lock through the chains, stomach turning as he noticed the blood smeared across the smooth metal.

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Matthew got up and staggered off to England's room.

The acrid scent of smoke, the conflicting feelings of hot anger and chilly betrayal and the charred burn that was what remained of York overwhelmed him. Matthew thought of Alfred pulling him up off the ground after chaining up France's room-_and if you come around again then I will take-_and passed out on top of England's imported Indian rug.

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><p><strong>1917<strong>

England's door was the last to be chained, and Matthew would not have considered it necessary if Arthur had just acknowledged him at Passchendaele.

The gas and the wounds somewhere near his stomach and lungs, combined with the casualties his troops had suffered throughout the whole war had finally taken their toll on the nation of Canada, who struggled to sit up in the muddy field. Everything hurt more because of the promise Arthur had made back before the war: "It'll all be worth it in the end, lad." It didn't feel worth it at all. He was cold, so cold, but still somehow managed to see the Englishman through the cracked lenses of his glasses.

Arthur was picking his way through the fields, one eye blackened and arm bandaged in a sling, one of his generals at his side, and Matthew desperately called out to him.

Arthur turned slightly. His eyes passed over Matthew without seeing him.

"Arthur!" Matthew called again, voice breaking and wounds throbbing. The familiar and unpleasant feeling of his bones shifting in his skin followed by cold slush being dumped into his soul started again for the third time in his life.

Arthur turned away.

Matthew retched and closed his eyes as he let his body fall back to the ground.

The chain he bought was shiny, bright steel that gleamed in the exact same way the bloodied, bile-covered bullet next to him did.

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><p>Matthew's memories of the medic's tent were hazy.<p>

He remembered a voice with an American accent that cooed reassurances through the infection and fever. But he was never quite sure whether it belonged to Alfred or if it was just a doctor.

When he dreamed, it was of rusting chains and an old, old white bear.

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><p><strong>1920<strong>

The house was quiet after the Great War. The completely free nation of Canada-now chained to nothing and no one except his land-had taken to sleeping downstairs.

"That's a stupid reason to stop sleeping in your own room, just because of the chained rooms surrounding it, you know," Kumajirou said, belatedly adding, "Whoever you are."

"I'm Canada. Matthew. The one that feeds you; and it is _not_ stupid," Matthew muttered, pillow in hand, "Just a tad illogical."

Kumajirou let out a huff, and the nation had a feeling he would be rolling his eyes had he been human. "It's still silly. And I don't think that your reason would be good enough for the person at the door," the bear replied.

Alarmed, Matthew dropped the pillow on the couch. "What do you mean there's someone at-" three sharp raps echoed through the house, "-the door," he finished weakly, quickly buttoning his pajama top as he walked through the library to the front entrance.

Opening the door revealed, much to Matthew's surprise, Alfred, one hand poised to knock again and a bag in the other.

"Mattie-" the nickname was breathed with an odd amount of reverence, "-I know it's strange and completely unexpected, but could I possibly stay the night?" A hesitant smile accompanied this request.

"Yes," Matthew replied without thinking. "I mean, no." Alfred's smile dropped as he adopted a confused expression. "I mean," Matthew helplessly gestured to the upstairs, "You- the rooms-"

Alfred's lips were pursed and his brow was furrowed in concern. "I don't think I follow, Matthew."

Wearily, Matthew pulled him inside and took the bag from his hand to drop it on the hardwood floor. "See for yourself," he muttered with a heavy sigh.

With one last confused glance to the Canadian, Alfred turned and ascended the stairs, watching Matthew walk into the library before he continued upstairs. Matthew curled up on the window seat and waited.

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><p>If it were possible for air to feel heavy with emotions, that was what the air upstairs felt like to Alfred. Of the four rooms in that part of the house, three had chains on their doors, even his own. Alfred reached down to touch the heavy lock and chain on his own, then looked at his hand. He jumped back and gave the lock and chain a horrified glance as dull red-brown flakes fell off of it.<p>

"Mattie? Please tell me that this reddish stuff on my lock and chain is just rust!" he called down. A long-suffering sigh came from the library, and then the sound of Matthew quietly padding up the stairs. He came to a stop next to Alfred.

"I put that one on after the burning of York, Alfred," he murmured. "Do you _think_ that's rust?"

Alfred gave him an absolutely stricken look over his glasses, which had slipped down his nose. "You know that was a government issue, right?"

Matthew reached down and touched the chain, cringing as more red flecks fell to the ground. "I was in pain, and I felt betrayed that you seemed to have no use for me other than how I could hurt England. And then I burned the White House, Alfred." He tossed the other nation a small smile. "I think we're even, yeah?"

Alfred smiled weakly back.

Quietly, Matthew slipped by Alfred's arm and walked to the end of the corridor. "You know about France's room, of course." That chain had indeed started to rust, and the orange-stained towel placed at the bottom of the door was evidence of that. "And England's room. It's only been chained for…" To his chagrin, Matthew's eyes began to water, remembering the gas and the hopelessness of the field and Arthur turning away from him. "For t-two years," he finally choked out, breathing in deeply.

Alfred silently pulled him into a hug. "I know, Matthew."

Startled, the Canadian looked up, bumping the top of his head on Alfred's chin as he did so. "What do you mean, _you know_?"

Alfred blushed slightly. "I was there when they brought you in. You had no pulse, but you were showing the characteristics of a nation's body recovering from death. So…I stayed. I didn't want you to be all alone if you woke up suddenly, so yeah, I stayed until they made me leave."

Matthew's eyes were wide and dark. "And you talked to me."

Alfred looked slightly confused but nodded. "And I talked to you. You talked back, a bit. Mostly about chains. Is this why?"

Matthew sighed and buried his face in Alfred's neck and didn't speak for a minute. When he did, it was muffled. "I can't stay up here anymore. It's filled with all these remnants of your presences and when I'm here, I don't sleep easy because none of you have ever really come back, and I can't forget that because all the chains are still here and I hate the feeling of knowing I'm forgotten and someday I'll just fade away, surrounded by only fragments of what once was."

Alfred's hand came up to stroke his back. "I remember when you put the chain on France's room. You said that if he came back he'd have to find the key himself, but you implied that you'd still take the chains off the door. And I remember when you were feverish and still in bandages and the human doctors thought you wouldn't make it, and you mumbled that the chains will always be there because they're never coming back."

Matthew nodded as best he could. "That's what I thought, yes, but Alfred-"

Alfred interrupted him, pushing the Canadian out of his arms so he could look him in the eye. "Mattie. _I came back_. You don't _need _the chains anymore!"

Matthew blinked. The only logical course of action at that second was to push Alfred's glasses back to the top of his nose.

With an unintelligible mutter that sounded suspiciously like "Damn it all" from the American, Matthew found himself in the interesting and new position of being flush against Alfred with their lips pressed together.

Slowly, he relaxed into Alfred's arms and by the time Alfred needed to pull back for air, Matthew had shut his eyes. "Mattie," Alfred murmured reverently, brushing back the Canadian's errant curl. Slowly, Matthew opened his eyes once more. "Mattie, I know you probably don't believe me, but I can promise-"

Matthew quickly placed a finger over his lips. "Don't promise. Just... don't."

Alfred's face was entirely too hopeful, Matthew thought. "Then can I just… love you?"

For the first time since reaching the hallway, Matthew grinned. "I'll race you to the couch."

Because there would be time later. There would be time to find some wire cutters. And when those didn't work, there would be time to find a locksmith. They had time to quietly bury the bloodied chains somewhere in Nunavut where God-willing they would never be found again. And they would be able to finally open doors and tear down old walls and re-paint every room until the whole house smelled toxic and they had to sleep outside. There would be days down the road where Matthew could invite England and France to stay the night, and he and Alfred would shock England's delicate sensibilities with the things they would do on those nights.

There would be time to trust, and there would be time to fall in love.

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><p>Hey all you party people-have a nice looooong weekend!<p>

A tremendous thanks to my friend who read and edited this for me during her math class.

...I think this fic was better in my head.


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